


Thousand Eyes

by EliotRosewater



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captivity, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Soviet Union, Stand Alone, Stockholm Syndrome, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliotRosewater/pseuds/EliotRosewater
Summary: After falling from the train but before the Winter Soldier: This was what Bucky pretended not to remember.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Thousand Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 16 October 2016. Minor edits have been made.

His vision swam, a radio being tuned. There were heavy flakes of white. It coated his eyes. There were flecks of brown. There was black. He got a clear picture of the sky for just a moment. He was fixed and the world moved around him. Faces wearing the brown flecks invaded his view. He saw his blue chest, and the toes of his boots made mountains beneath the blanket sheathing him.

The world tipped on a wave, and he went with it. That was how he noticed the missing pieces. With angry redness and abruptness, his arm ended too soon. Snow buried him in a frozen tomb, and the faces embedded in those flecks of brown watched.

It melted, his tomb. He woke stifling, with gasps, helpless mewling and squirming. Lightning struck up and down his bones. The world moved at three times its usual speed. Voices drowned him; he couldn't understand the words. He couldn't see them because his eyes wouldn't allow it. Whatever they were — _whoever_ they were _—_ they plucked him out of the rush and brought him to a place that was much slower.

He opened his eyes. They had been faces caught in flecks of brown. Now they were faces enveloped in fatigue.

The closest face spoke words he didn't understand.

"What?" he said. There were twigs in his throat that scratched.

The closest face spoke. There were two faces behind him. One of the faces left. Watching the face go made the world speed up and spin. He closed his eyes against it and swallowed. The closest face was talking at him, but he couldn't understand. They were at sea, and the world was rocking him side to side.

"Hullo," said the sky.

He opened his eyes and looked over. A new face had arrived. It was crouched beside him and the first face.

"Hey," he said.

The sky smiled. "So you speak! I am here to help, yeah? I talk for you and commander, OK? You understand?" The sky gestured to the first face.

"OK," he said because it was easier than nodding his head. "Commander." He wasn't sure why he said it.

"You call me Priyatel'. OK? Is this good?"

"Priyatel'," he said.

The sky smiled — this Priyatel' smiled at him. "We call you what?"

"What," he said.

"Your name. What is your name, comrade?"

"I," he said. Lightning struck inside him again. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry like a kitten again.

What was his name?

The commander said something to the sky. The sky said to him, "Commander says your uniform did not have any rank insignia, but you are a soldier. They recognise this."

The sky held up his blue chest. The bottom half of one of the sleeves was missing. The frayed end was dipped in red. Not a single button was missing. He couldn't look away from the truth of that fact. All the buttons were still married to the chest, threads unstressed. Unlike him. The world tipped a few degrees, and he scratched and scrambled. The buttons were knocked out of focus. He thought instead of the fact that he was naked beneath a blanket and missing an arm — pieces of him.

The sky shook his chest at him, because the sky knew he wasn't looking in the right place. The sky shook what remained of the red-dipped sleeve so that he looked at the wing embroidered there.

"This is your unit?" Priyatel' said.

It must be, if he had been wearing it. If that chest was his, then whatever unit the embroidered wing signified must have been his.

He said, "That's my jacket."

The sky told the commander and they made faces at each other. A part of him wanted his chest back. Even with the red-dipped sleeve, he wanted his chest back.

"You are not well," the sky told him.

Something deep inside spoke with his mouth. "Ain't that the truth."

Priyatel' smiled tightly and patted the injured shoulder lightly, the one that ended too soon in rusty bandages. He couldn't feel it, but the planet spun out from under him. He was gone.

When the world righted itself, the sky was still there. He tried to move, to sit himself up, but his body wouldn't allow it.

"I am having something for you," the sky said.

He was handfed and watered by this Priyatel' who had a face like the sky. It was slow and agonising work. He thought he might choke on it and vomit.

"There," Priyatel' said when it was over. "Feeling better already, aren't you?"

"Hrumph," he said.

The sky laughed the sound of wind chimes.

"So you know your name?"

"Uh," he said.

Was his chest still around? Could he have it back?

Priyatel' was unconcerned. "Until you do, what will we call you, eh?"

The wings on the sleeve of his chest — that had been his unit. He'd had a unit. There were soldiers around. Soldiers had units.

"I'm a soldier," he told Priyatel'.

"Is that right?" He was smiling again and being sarcastic. "You are a soldier? We will call you Soldier until you know what you're called? Is that what you're saying to me?"

"OK," he said.

"OK, Soldier," the sky said. "Commander has told me to stay with you. I am the only one here speaking English, so I'll be with you."

"Have you found my unit?" he said. Maybe if he saw them, his unit, the storm in his head would clear. Maybe they'd put his chest back on him. Maybe his unit would give him his missing pieces back; they'd peel back the soiled dressings and a new piece would grow in its place. Maybe.

Priyatel' looked at the other men in the fatigued tent. "We are working on it."

The world still moved too fast even though his body didn't move at all. All he had was the fatigue and the sky. There was nothing he could do about the fatigue. He talked to the sky. There was nothing else for him to do but talk.

Priyatel' told him stories about his time in war. He'd been evicting Germans from the homes they'd stolen from Priyatel's countrymen. Priyatel' told him, "I am speaking German, too, so they would have me speak to the Germans." He made an intimidating face and laughed. "Have no fear, Soldier, I will not speak to you as I spoke to the Germans! You've done nothing wrong. Have you?"

He laughed with the sky, but he wondered if he _had_ done something wrong. When he asked about his unit, he was told they were still working on it. There were a lot of reasons it was taking so long. Priyatel' translated the answers from the brown-uniformed flecks. Communications were bad. There was a storm. They were engaged in battle. Equipment had been damaged.

Every day, Priyatel' fed and watered him. Pride and dignity returned to the forgetful soldier, and he raised hell until he was allowed to try it for himself. The water was easy. Food was more difficult. When the sky helped him sit and lean, he could do it.

Soon, he'd be sitting up while Priyatel' told his tales. Sometimes the stories would bring memories into the soldier's head. He'd remember faces and places, but he'd never share these with the sky. They'd always get interrupted by the medical staff coming to pick at him and his missing pieces anyway.

Priyatel' quizzed the soldier about the words he couldn't understand if the medical-flecks were doing something particularly painful to what remained of his arm. The words — they were Russian words; the soldier hadn't been able to understand because he didn't know Russian — felt blocky on the soldier's tongue, unfamiliar. But the more Priyatel' taught him, the more comfortable the blocks became. They would conjugate verbs and run through lists of weapons in both English and Russian while the medical-flecks picked at him. It was an effective distraction. Plus, now the soldier could talk to the medical-flecks himself. They smiled at him like a child, a pet.

Their conversations were split: Priyatel' in English, the forgetful soldier in broken Russian.

One time, quite inexplicably, he said, "There was a Frenchman in my unit."

Priyatel' launched into a speech about his opinion of the French, but the soldier was left wondering when was the last time he'd asked after his unit. It was hard to remember.

The world was shaking on its axis, losing its balance. He woke up and asked the flecks around him what was going on. He knew that much in Russian. He couldn't understand all the words they said back to him though. But it was OK, because he could hear the bombs for himself. Explosions meant the same thing in every language.

A fleck pulled on his arm. The world flipped upright; he was standing for the first time that he could remember. The world still hadn't regained its balance. The axis was bending like a long stem buffeted by the wind. Gravity was acting strangely.

"Uh oh," he said.

"No uh oh," said the sky.

Where had he come from?

"Come, Soldier, all is well. I have got you."

The way the world shifted — it was making him sick. He couldn't find the Russian words, so he asked in English. "What's going on?"

"Time for you to move," he said.

"Move where?"

"Hear the bombs, Soldier? I am not thinking you can fight those bombs as you are." Priyatel' shifted and the world leaned toward him. "No, you must come to the rear where you will be safe from all these bombs."

"OK," he said.

In a truck that swayed and bumped, he was lying down. The world was small and hot and damp. He couldn't help his groan or the way his body tried to roll. Hands stopped him.

"Be still," Priyatel' said.

He was so relieved to hear the sky's familiar voice that he forgot about his discomfort.

"We've finally gotten a hold of the Allies," said the sky. "They're going to come and get you. But we have to be away from the bombs. We're taking you back to Russia, and they'll come get you where it's safe."

"Will I see my unit?" he asked.

He fell asleep. It was so hot.

"Are you well? Hullo? Soldier, are you well?"

"Nugh."

There was laughing; it was the sky.

"Why's it so hot?" he tried to say. It was nothing more than a whisper. He was as dry as a November leaf.

"Don't worry."

Were they in Russia now? Was his unit coming? Why was it so hot?

He fell asleep.

"Hey," he said before he was awake. He eyes opened slowly. His heart was already racing.

A blue-green fleck was retreating. There was something long and delicate between the fleck's fingers.

"Hey," he tried again. His missing piece was stinging. It was _burning_ — was that why it was so hot? How long had he been without his chest?

The fleck was leaving. In its place the sky arrived.

"Be calm, Soldier," said Priyatel'. "It's only to help you."

"Help me what? Grow my arm back?"

He laughed, but it was uncomfortable. Something was going on.

"Not quite. Is it still hot for you?"

"Yes."

"This will make it not so."

"Stings."

"I know. It will ease. Then you will be not so hot. How is that sounding?"

"Mrumph."

"Do not be so excited, Soldier."

After that, there were a lot of stings. Mostly, he woke up feeling the bite of a needle on his missing piece. It didn't make the heat go away. He was always so hot. His body kept sweating even though he felt all dried out. The blue-green flecks gave him an IV. The bag on the other end of the tube hung beside the soldier like a rain cloud he couldn't shake. They kept the bag covered in black cloth. They said the lights would damage the medicine. The medicine made him so hot inside that he often fell asleep. It wasn't worth being aware if he had to feel the burning inside him.

Priyatel' no longer joked. There were no quizzes while the flecks picked at the limp dressings on the soldier's missing piece. He had no answers to any of the soldier's questions. The sky looked dark and anxious every time the soldier asked about his unit and when the horrible heat inside him would ease. His missing piece was really starting to hurt.

"I am not knowing," Priyatel' said. "I wish I could tell you differently."

It sounded like he meant it.

Someone was moving above him. He felt heavy and filled with toxic heat but feeling someone move above him reminded him.

His name was Bucky. He was a sergeant in an auxiliary unit of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. His unit was called the Howling Commandos — it was a stupid name. His unit hadn't been able to shake the name so they'd lived up to it. His commander was Captain Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers was more than a commander to Bucky.

He had more missing pieces now. They ached. He wanted his blue chest back, with its red-dipped sleeve and wings embroidered on the shoulder.

"I'm going to die," he told the body above him. He said it in Russian, too, just in case.

Priyatel' was pushing his gurney. Bucky wanted to sit up, but moving cost too much these days. It made the world tilt and spin and move too fast. By now, he was sure the heat inside him had melted all his organs into one twisted pile of tissue. It didn't matter. They'd removed the IV a day ago. It was hopeless. He'd remembered everything just in time to die of infection.

They came to some room with a chamber. There were a lot of people standing around the chamber. Priyatel' stopped the gurney and came to stand before him.

"How about it?" he said.

Bucky grunted.

The sky made another one of his anxious faces. It was as if he were steeling himself, preparing to shoot a wounded horse. "Here," he said, and the world flipped over and over until Bucky was upright.

Bucky's stomach twisted until bile dripped off his lips. Beside him, Priyatel' made a sound. He wiped the bile away with his sleeve. The motion was gentle.

"Thanks," Bucky said.

Priyatel' made a sound. It was regretful or wounded. "Come on. To the chamber. It will help. It will fix you. The burn will go away."

They were moving. Bucky had no say in it.

"How?" he mumbled. He was dead. He was dying. He was dead.

"It is like . . . what is the word? For people who can't breathe? That machine? I am not knowing it in English."

Images of Steve flooded his mind and Bucky said, "Iron lung?"

"Yes!" said Priyatel'. He took another step through all the congregated people, another step toward the cylinder. "Iron lung, yes. For the people with polio. It helps them breathe. As it is for them, this machine will help you cool down. Make you better, Soldier."

Bucky was dying, but he lifted his head off the sky's shoulder to appraise the machine. It didn't look like an iron lung. It was vertically arranged, for one thing. All of Bucky would have to be inside the chamber. His head wouldn't stick out.

"Doesn't look like any iron lung I've ever seen," he told Priyatel'. "How long I gotta be in there?"

They sky made that poor sound again.

"Not so long," he said lowly. It was an attempt at comfort, Bucky thought.

"OK."

Despite it all, OK. He was so hot, and he was dying. He couldn't stand the sight of his missing piece; it was worse than the burn of it. He knew he had a unit called the Howling Commandos. He knew he had someone called Steve Rogers missing him right that moment. He knew his name was Bucky, and he knew he was going to die of infection.

There wasn't much hope in the sky's voice as he helped Bucky into the chamber. A few of the men standing around the room came forward to help. Priyatel' was gone, pushed out by these new people who arranged Bucky just so in the chamber.

He was dead. He was dying. He was dead.

This was a stab at making him comfortable before he went. The door to the chamber closed and, for just a moment, Bucky saw the sky through a little window. Then blessed cold rushed in. He was so relieved. He closed his eyes.

His eyes opened on their own accord. God bless him, he was _cold_. It was all he could think about, but he was grateful for it. The burn was gone. It was _gone_. The window was frosted over, so he couldn't see if Priyatel' was there. But he wanted to shout and sing — _the heat was gone_!

The shivering and sluggishness of his body kept him occupied until the chamber opened and ready hands guided him out. They took his weight off his legs and brought him to a table. They laid him down and put a sheet over him. They attached wires and strange devices. Needles crawled under his cool skin. His mouth wasn't ready to talk, so he just watched and marvelled at the lack of heat inside him. Cold was uncomfortable, but it wasn't heat.

"Priyatel'?" he asked the person unwinding the bandage from his missing piece.

The person looked up at him. There was surprise on his face. Shock even. Maybe. The man continued to unwind the bandage.

"Is Priyatel' here?" he tried again. He made sure he said each word in Russian, no matter how hard he had to concentrate. Bucky was high on the lack of fire in his blood. Relief. He didn't even feel like he was going to die anymore.

The man looked at him again. That surprise. It was starting to look like distrust. There was a prick at Bucky's neck. He didn't worry about the man's face anymore. He went to sleep.

He got an image of someone. That someone said, "Sergeant Barnes."

The world turned and turned and flipped over itself. His mind ran away. It didn't want to deal with all that voice implied. Where was Priyatel' — where was the sky?

How long had Bucky been in that chamber?

His first image upon waking was that of three blue ghosts converging on him. They held tools and things that made Bucky want to squirm. He wasn't cold anymore. The heat was creeping back in. One of the ghosts mixed something in a bowl. One had a tool with a cord. The third came at him — he couldn't see anything but their blue bodies and black hands — with a needle. It stuck him. It turned everything off but his eyes — paralysed.

He told himself not to fear. They were helping. They were fixing him. They were—

—cutting the rest of his broken part off. His heart pounded. Did they know he was awake? That he was watching? The tissue was dead. He knew it was infected, it was dead. Were they cutting it away before his very eyes? The piece was missing was gone was dead — why did it hurt so much?

Someone must have noticed. Someone must have done something. Someone must have because it all went thankfully dark. See no more. Feel no more. Hear no more.

There was a buzz across his mind. He thought he saw light. He thought he felt something awful. He senses were _on fire_. There were strings inside him. He was a piano. Those strings were being pulled one. at. a. time. He tried to scream or run. What he got was more black, thank God.

It happened a lot. The strings gave away one by one. He always got more black. He was always grateful.

Time had forsaken him a long time ago, so he wasn't sure how long it had been when he was finally allowed back. The light flooded his eyes. Bucky's whole body felt like a bruise, worn out and sore. His body was allowed to move, but he found no satisfaction in exercising the ability. Even so, Bucky turned his head to look at what they'd done to his missing piece.

They'd made him into a monster. The piece was gone — all of it. Gone. What was left was . . . it was. When he told the missing piece to move, it moved. It was heavy. The lights shone on the surface of what they'd done. It wasn't a missing piece. It wasn't even a broken piece. It made purring, mechanical sounds. The noise attracted him an audience. The blue ghosts. They had human faces now.

In the back, behind the blue ghosts, was a little man with round lenses before his eyes. The one who'd called him Sergeant Barnes. That man was the reason why bodies shifting above Bucky reminded him of Steve saving him.

There was no one called _priyatel'_ here. There never had been.

Bucky grabbed the first throat he could. A needle bit him before he could strangle the life out of that ghost.

_Someone_ said, "Put him on ice" before Bucky was completely gone.

He was in the chamber. He was in the chamber. They'd just put him in the chamber. The world was swirling around him. Where was the sky? There were clouds. He wanted his chest, his blue chest with the Howling Commandos insignia embroidered on the side. He wanted his blue chest because they'd taken his arm — he could hide this _thing_ in his blue chest. He could fix the sleeve.

The world was spinning. It was scattering his thoughts and heartbeat like papers on a windy day. It tilted. Someone had instructed these people to put him on ice. Bucky struggled. The world tipped and turned with his movements. Bucky fought them as hard as he could.

The chamber door won. It closed and locked and _pressure_. He threw the monstrosity they'd given him at the window — he'd seen the sky through that window last time.

Bucky swore to God that he tried to fight, he tried, _Dum Dum, I swear I tried to fight them, I did everything I could! Frenchie, please believe me, I swear, I didn't want to._ _Gabe, I didn't know. I didn't know, please. This whole time it was them, I didn't know. I would have fought. I would have. If I'd known, Morita, please, if I'd known they weren't just Russians I would have fought sooner, if I'd known, I would have never called them friend, I didn't know how deep HYDRA went, Monty , please, I didn't. I would have fought sooner. Steve, I didn't know, I didn't want this, I swear. Steve!_

He thought he heard thunder.

He didn't realise he was awake until they sat him in a chair. By then it was too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Named for [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wylkSUS9Ofs).


End file.
